


quit dragging my heart through these coals

by omelet



Series: while you're here in my arms [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, it's actually feelings porn, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omelet/pseuds/omelet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He had thought that after that one night, that one night when they both gave up and gave in, that maybe it would be over, because maybe all Stiles wanted was to have Derek, just once, that just having his hands on him was the endgame. But it was fleeting and a long time ago and it was supposed to mean nothing and yet he still dreams of waking up to see the sun rise over the curve of Derek's shoulder."</p>
            </blockquote>





	quit dragging my heart through these coals

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing porn-ish stuff. This is an expanded version of an event that is only briefly mentioned in the actual fic. But I thought it would be weird to just jam this in there so I'm posting it separately.
> 
> Un-beta'd.

Derek kisses like he's trying to win some kind of award, licking into Stiles' mouth, running his tongue along his teeth, biting down on his lip, sucking on his tongue. Stiles groans into his mouth when Derek pushes up against him, pressing his knee between his legs, grinding up against him, his hands splayed against his sides to hold him in place. Everything suddenly feels painfully clear, like all the alcohol had been burned out of him the moment Derek kissed him.

In the back of his mind, he knows he should push away, should tell Derek that he doesn't have to do this, that this was just a lapse in judgement, that this is going to ruin everything ( _ruin what_ , he thinks but,  _not now_ ) but there's no going back now. Stiles wants to drown in this, carve it in his memory, Derek's stubble under his palms, Derek's quiet sighs sliding across his cheek, Derek's mouth, hot and velvet-soft, Derek's fingers fitting between his ribs.

And if it meant he was going to burn right out of this body, god, he would let it happen.

-

Stiles blames it on the alcohol.

His human body is a lightweight. Not even a beer and three shots in and his head is already swimming, his body feeling too warm. He manages to push past the throng of moving bodies; in the corner of his eye, he sees Scott and Allison sucking face, no surprise there. The music pounds loud against his ears, the heavy bass rattling his bones. He loosens his tie a notch as he stumbles out into the backyard for some air.

Lydia suddenly sidles up beside him with two cups in her hand, one of her fluffy wings smacking him in the shoulder. Her bright red lips curve into that sharp knowing smile. "Hey there," she says airily, holding out one of the cups as she takes a sip from the other. "Enjoying the party?"

The music makes him feel like his head is going to explode but he doesn't say anything. He does, however, grudgingly take the offered cup, not wanting to give the seraph another thing to hold over his head. A demon who can't hold his liquor? What a disaster. He tips the cup back, trying not to gag as the alcohol burns its way down his throat. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gives her a once-over before letting out a laugh. "Oh that's hilarious. An angel. So original."

She scoffs, flicking her hair back, her halo wobbling. "You're one to talk," she waves her cup at him. He looks down at his outfit. "Man in red, indeed." She grabs a bottle from the refreshments table. "You do pull off red pants surprisingly well," she adds, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

"Alternative interpretation of Little Red Riding Hood, alright?" He says defensively, straightening out his vest. "I already did the cloak and dress thing last year."

"Mmm yeah, that wasn't much of a hit," Lydia says, tipping some more whiskey into both of their cups. She taps her red solo cup against Stiles, leveling him with an expectant look. He scowls, lifting the cup to his lips and knocking it back. His face contorts, his nose scrunching and his eyes squeezing shut as he gets through the unpleasant sour-bitter taste, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth like a deranged snake, while Lydia remains perfectly straight-faced like she had taken a pleasant sip of water. When he opens his eyes, he sees her smile widen as she tips another shot into his cup. "Looks like it will be this year though."

She nods at the space over his shoulder and before he can turn, she slips back into the crowd. And of course she does, because there's Derek, standing in the shadows of Lydia's backyard like it's perfectly normal. He's in his usual attire, the standard leather and jeans ensemble, not even attempting to fit in to the Halloween party, unless he's trying to be Wolverine or some sort of serial killer.

So, still painfully attractive.

Derek rakes his eyes up and down, looking at him like, well, Stiles knows that look. It's subtle, but it's there. He's seen it enough throughout his years of watching humans and learning about them, seen it at school dances, seen it on Scott's face when it's facing Allison, which is a little terrifying. Stiles swallows, breathing suddenly even more difficult than it already is when he notices Derek's eyes following the bobbing of Adam's apple. He sifts through his memory, trying to remember if werewolves can get drunk too.

Usually, he would just nod and walk away. But they've already made eye contact for too long to cut it short without seeming rude and it's not like he can go and find Scott (Lydia is most definitely long gone, the traitor). He glances around the backyard. By now, everyone would be too drunk or too focused on someone else to notice him and Derek in the corner of the backyard. So he downs his drink because he's going to need it, sucking air through his teeth as he tosses the cup over his shoulder (he gets a very slight eyebrow raise from Derek, who knew Derek was into recycling) and slowly makes his way over, his hips swaying not in an attempt to look alluring but rather as a consequence of trying to walk in such a way to avoid falling flat on his face.

"Didn't know this was your kind of thing," Stiles says when he's close enough, which isn't necessary but he does it to look normal, for Derek's sake, really. And he just really wants to touch him, but that's beside the point.

Derek shrugs. "Lydia invited me. Figured I'd drop by, make sure none of you were doing anything stupid." His nose flares visibly as he, presumably, scents the air, grimacing slightly. All he smells is probably alcohol and sex.

"Never pegged you as such a responsible figure," Stiles says with a grin. Derek scowls.

"I'm not," he says, like the idea that he actually cares about anyone is so ludicrous he can't allow it to get into anyone's head. "I don't need the trouble of having the Argents on me if word gets out that one of my pack got out of control at a party."

Stiles snorts, but doesn't call Derek out on his flimsy excuse. "Uh huh," is all he says, nodding exaggeratedly. Derek rolls his eyes.

Derek looks him up and down again, lingers briefly on the red pants which, okay, is admittedly a little over-the-top, and Stiles must be really drunk because he can feel the heat of his gaze. "What are you supposed to be?" Derek growls, with an edge of aggression that he really doesn't have the capacity to analyze.

"Little Red Riding Hood?" He lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers as if to say  _Ta-da!_  but Derek looks decidedly unamused. "A-alternative interpretation," he finishes weakly under Derek's smoldering gaze.

Derek just grunts, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Right." He looks around, shifting on his feet like he's preparing to leave. To which Stiles thinks  _no_.

"We're gonna take a walk," Stiles declares, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, toward the forest. "I'm not a fan of parties anyway." He pauses for a heartbeat before turning on his heel and walking (well, clambering over Lydia's prickly hedges before walking), not waiting to give Derek the chance to refuse, and sure enough, he hears leaves crunching behind him when he reaches the forest edge.

The raucous laughter and pounding music fades as they walk deeper into the forest, replaced with wind and rustling leaves, the snapping of branches as they tread through. They don't really make opportunities to talk, not during these down times, when there are no immediate threats in their town, even less so now since Stiles' secret got out. It makes Stiles wonder why Derek came along anyway.

He pops a button on his shirt. It's just supposed to be a walk, to get away from the heavy stuffy air of the party, to let the night wind cool him off, but all Stiles feels is hot, heat in his hands as they sweat, heat in his head as the alcohol makes the demon in him burn, heat at the bottom of his stomach. Derek is matching pace beside him, a perpetual source of heat, and Stiles steadily grows hotter. He pops another button; it doesn't help.

He closes his eyes, lets out a shaky breath. He knows that he's going to regret this but he can't find it in him to care. Derek is here now and they're alone. He isn't sober enough to think about what's at stake.

He stops. Derek walks another two steps before realizing that he's stopped. He turns to stare at him cautiously, questioningly. Stiles lets out another breath and it feels like that time, years ago, when he left the first and last body he ever possessed.

And like a man possessed ( _hah_ ), he steps forward wordlessly and lifts his hand to slide under the collar of Derek's jacket, pushing against the neck of his shirt to curl around the juncture of his neck, Derek's skin hot even in his burning hands, his shoulders tense. His grip tightens when Derek's hand shoots up to wrap around his wrist, thumb pressing against his thundering pulse, stopping him from moving further but not pulling him off either.

"Stiles," is all he says, his tone warning but strained, but god, Stiles can't help himself.

"Just for tonight," Stiles pleads, despite all his restraint up until now, despite all those nights he told himself that he would keep all this want to himself. His stomach lurches when he thinks of the way his voice almost narrowly turned sickly-sweet, his old habit of using his silver tongue to get what he wants rearing its head. Maybe it's the alcohol, the way it makes it harder for him to hold on to this borrowed humanity, that's making it so easy to give in. All he knows is that he wants this, wants it now (wants to let it burn itself out before he has any more time to think about what it all means).

He thinks Derek is going to protest, maybe throw him at a tree and growl in his face for daring to even think that he would consider having sex with a demon, so it comes as an oddly pleasant surprise when he feels Derek's tongue pushing insistently against the seam of his lips.

-

It doesn't feel like a struggle, even though Derek pins Stiles against a tree, somehow managing to loom over him even though Stiles is just barely taller than him on a good day, like he's trying to remind him that he's dangerous, that he has power over him.

It feels like a magnetic pull. They fall toward each other like it's second nature, hands roaming like they've been waiting forever for this very moment, and Stiles doesn't want to think about how much that scares him.

-

"You're wearing too much stuff," Stiles manages to breathe out as he paws at Derek's jacket, his higher brain functions effectively shot to hell as Derek works on sucking hickeys along his throat all the way down to his collarbone. Derek just hums, his mouth still latched to Stiles' skin, shrugging off his jacket and yanking off Stiles' tie in one smooth movement. The tie flutters to the ground, which is a shame. Stiles had plans for that tie, very fantastic elaborate plans, plans he promptly forgets about when Derek pushes the heel of his hand against the front of his pants and licks all the way up to the back of his ear at the same time. This is hardly kinkier than any of the porn he's seen online or even kinky at all, but this, the feeling of Derek's hands on him, the scratchy softness of his tongue running along his skin, the shape of his mouth as he whispers his name, feels better than anything he can remember.

"Ohhhh my god," he murmurs, his hips instinctively thrusting against Derek's hand, chasing that friction as Derek bites his earlobe. Damn his teenage body, he swears he's going to come just from this.

He grabs the hem of Derek's shirt and tugs, running his palms along his sides, until Derek gets the idea. Derek finally pulls off for the first time in five minutes to wrench off his shirt and Stiles miraculously manages to distract himself away from his ridiculous body to take a breath and unbutton his vest. He barely manages to get it off before Derek's on him again, capturing his lips in another dirty open-mouthed kiss, his hands like fire as they slide under his dress shirt, rucking it up to his armpits. Derek's thumb runs across his nipple and Stiles shudders, his hand tangling in Derek's hair and pulling hard, dragging a low growl out of Derek. Derek bows his head to lap at the marks along his neck as his hand trails downwards, stopping to unbuckle Stiles' belt.

"Hurry up," Stiles moans, tipping his head back, hitting the tree with a solid thump. He feels Derek smile against his skin.

"Pushy," he teases, his fingers deftly undoing Stiles' pants like it's a practiced movement (Briefly, Stiles sees red when the thought crosses his mind, taken over by irrational possessiveness, but how can you feel possessive over something you've never had?). Derek's voice is gravel-rough and Stiles can feel him hard against his hip. It's nice to know that Derek's as affected by Stiles as he is by him.

Then Derek drops to his knees, leaves crinkling under him, dragging Stiles' pants and boxers down with him. Stiles shakes with every warm exhale he feels on his exposed skin, his breath stuttering. Derek glances up at Stiles through half-lidded eyes, an amused smirk on his lips because he's a life-ruining asshole, as he drags his thumb down the head, smearing pre-come along the length. He sucks another hickey on his inner thigh before leaning forward to suck on the tip of his cock, his mouth soft and warm, his hands gripping Stiles' sweating thighs as he tongues the underside. Stiles swears like the words were choked out of him, watching as Derek's eyelashes flutter as he bobs his head, taking it in half an inch at a time. Watches those lips, always down-turned in a frown or stretched in a thin line, so deceptively sinful, soft and pink around his cock.

"God, your mouth," he breathes, closing his eyes, panting along with the wet-slick noises hanging in the air. Derek's fingers brush against his hole, pressing just hard enough to get him on his toes, pushing deeper into Derek's throat, earning him a pleased hum, before moving between his legs, skirting across his balls to wrap around the base of his cock. Stiles strokes the corner of Derek's mouth lazily with his thumb, tugs at his hair with the other hand and he gets what he wants, another growl that shakes him to the core.

And of course, at the most opportune moment, with him totally ready to come with Derek's mouth and hand on his dick, Stiles groans, "fuck me."

Derek pulls his mouth off, just a little, shiny strings of spit and come still hanging off his swollen-red lips. He moves his hand at an agonizingly slow speed as he looks up at Stiles thoughtfully, his tongue darting out to lick his lips clean. Stiles just stares back, his breathing erratic, closing his mouth and swallowing before he can embarrass himself by drooling all over himself, trying not to look too ridiculous as he valiantly tries not to thrust back into Derek's mouth.

"I don't have anything," Derek says flatly, still moving to stand anyway. And this is the guy who alternates between living in a fucking tetanus-ridden train station and the charred remains of his family home. Stiles almost wants to laugh at this newfound practicality.

"We'll make do," Stiles says roughly as he kicks off his boxers and pants and shoes and fumbles with the button of Derek's jeans with one hand while trying to drag off his socks with the other because there is no way he is going to do something as tacky as have sex with his socks on. Derek, clearly unimpressed with his attempts at multitasking, swats his hand away and does it himself, shoving everything down and kicking it all away smoothly, even getting his own shoes and socks. Stiles does let out a laugh at that.

He doesn't even get a good look at Derek's cock, doesn't even get to fully appreciate the fact that Derek Hale is completely buck-ass naked in front of him as  _they prepare to fuck in a forest_  which is so ridiculous that he would laugh if he wasn't so busy staring at the backs of his eyelids as Derek swiftly grabs the back of his knee to lift his leg, slowly pushing a wet finger into him. They're doing this with basically nothing so Derek takes his time with it, one finger at a time, ignoring Stiles' pleas to  _hurry the fuck up jesus christ_  to hit his prostate over and over until Stiles is shaking apart, leaning against him for support as he grips Derek's biceps tight, twitching and gasping with every spark of pleasure, until Derek's sure he's good and ready. In retaliation, Stiles bites and licks at whatever he can get at, Derek's lips, the skin along his jaw and neck, worrying at it with his teeth and tongue. Much to his chagrin, any redness fades before a bruise can even form.

"If you don't fuck me right now," Stiles slurs against his shoulder, his tongue slipping out to taste Derek's sweat-slicked skin as he pushes against the three fingers Derek has in him, "I will never save your perfect werewolf ass again."

He hears Derek huff out a laugh and shamefully whimpers when Derek pulls out. Derek grabs him by the thighs and lifts him up, pinning him firmly against the tree, his forehead pressed against Stiles' as their breaths mingle, white wispy blooms in the cold night air. Stiles wraps himself around Derek, his arms looping around his neck as Derek lines himself up. Derek looks at him from under his eyelashes and Stiles finds himself staring back, running his hand down Derek's face, mapping out the slope of his cheek, the curve of his neck. Derek watches him with an unusual focus; Stiles will never admit that it made him flush bashfully. He feels Derek's hand against his back, running his fingetips across the spot where his skin meets the rough bark of the tree, inflamed and rubbed raw.

"Good?" Derek asks hoarsely. Stiles, not trusting his voice, swallows and nods.

Derek pushes in slowly as he breathes against Stiles' cheek, his mouth half-open in a moan as his hands trail up and down Stiles' thighs, cupping his ass, and Stiles keens as he feels every perfect agonizing moment, his head falling back as he tries to relax and pull Derek closer, his ankles hooked around his waist. It's too much, god it's too much, it's supposed to be satisfying to finally have what he's wanted since he saw him, like letting out a breath you've been holding for far too long, but it's overwhelming and all-consuming. Derek bottoms out, his body flush against Stiles in almost every way, Stiles' cock trapped between their bodies, rubbing up against Derek's smooth stomach. Stiles should be trying to move, trying to get himself off, but he just clutches him tighter, breathing noisily through his slack mouth, nosing Derek's stubbled cheek, his hands moving everywhere, swiping up along Derek's shoulders and neck, along his jawline and the sides of his face, catching the drops of sweat along his hairline. Derek turns his head, his lips pressing against the corner of Stiles' mouth like a reassurance, his pupils wide and dark but the ring of green bright in the moonlight.

It feels too intimate, too contained and quiet as Derek rocks against him. It's supposed to be the way Stiles imagined it, hard and hurtful and loud and angry and meaningless, maybe wrought from adrenaline, done somewhere shameful and dirty, a quick and stolen affair, something that would never come up again except as an awkward drunk story to tell far in the future. His eyes are supposed to be coal black, the demon coming out to play, taunting and teasing and sweet-talking Derek until Derek growls, all hair and fangs and claws and glowing crimson eyes, and fucks him into submission, leaving bloody scratches and ugly bruises on his skin.

It's not supposed to be like this, Derek stroking his hipbones with his thumbs as he thrusts nice and slow, kissing Stiles softly every time he lets out a whine of pain because as much as he wanted this, it still hurts. He's supposed to be holding on because Derek doesn't want this, any of this, doesn't want to be here, doesn't want  _him_ , not because Stiles doesn't want this to end. He's not supposed to look at Derek, his face so open and raw, and think that he's beautiful. They're supposed to be nothing, tentative allies at best, not this undefined thing that's kept them in this infuriatingly complicated dance for the past three years. It's not supposed to feel good or right, like finally belonging somewhere, when they're both so fucked up.

Derek groans, moves faster as his hand curls around Stiles' leaking cock, his thumb swiping over the head. A few strokes later, Stiles comes with a quiet moan, shuddering with pleasure and an edge of dread, and Derek follows soon after.

They stay like that for a while, Derek panting wetly against Stiles' collarbone and Stiles holding on to Derek, his fingers absently tracing the tattoo on his back, his nose pressed against his neck as he tries to breathe steadily. Derek smells perpetually like the forest, earthy and fresh, and faintly of smoke and metal, his life and history all on his skin. Stiles imagines that he smells like nothing.

Eventually, Derek pulls out and Stiles manages to get upright on his shaky legs, with Derek steadying him with his hands on his hips until he's able to lean back against the tree. Their eyes meet but he quickly turns away to start tugging on his clothes and Derek drops his hands, his fingers brushing against his thighs. He tries not to think about how his gut twists with the loss of Derek's touch.

He wrinkles his nose at his dress shirt, which is stained, but the vest will cover it up where it matters. He presses lightly against his neck, locating the marks. Only half of them can be covered by the collar of his shirt; the rest are unexplainable. They dress in silence, save for the sound of swishing leaves, clinking metal and zippers.

Stiles smooths down the wrinkles in his clothes and looks up at Derek, who's already done dressing, his hands back in his pockets. Derek still radiates warmth and Stiles still feels like he's on fire. Derek looks at him, his face unreadable, reminding Stiles of those first few weeks after they found out he was a demon.

Yeah. It still hurts.

"Are we good?" Stiles asks, hating how small his voice sounds. This isn't  _his_  first time, but  _his body's_  first time, but it feels like the first time all the same. Some demon you are, he thinks bitterly. With your dumb teenage girl feelings.

There's a pause. "If you want us to be," Derek answers quietly.

This wasn't just a one night stand, Stiles realizes numbly, but this is how they're treating it. He doesn't tell Derek that he was wrong about this, that this wasn't a one time thing, that the fire is burning even hotter and brighter than before. He doesn't ask Derek for what he wants. He's afraid of what he'll say.

"Yeah," he says. He nods jerkily. "I - we're okay, right?"

"Yeah." Derek echoes, giving Stiles an odd look that he doesn't want to analyze. "Do you want me to walk you back?"

"It's fine," Stiles murmurs. He knows that the house is nearby and waves a hand. "I'll...see you later."

"Yeah." Silence hangs between them for a while before Derek moves tentatively, like he's waiting for something. But Stiles doesn't look up until he hears Derek's footsteps fade away.

He throws his head back against the tree, runs his hand across his short hair. He can still feel Derek in and all around him, in his stinging cheeks, the bruises along his neck, the lingering imprints of his fingers. He wonders if he left his mark on Derek too.

He closes his eyes, sees Derek staring back at him with his hazel eyes, with that look that makes his inherited heart clench.

"Fuck."

Everything stays the same, but everything has changed for Stiles.

**Author's Note:**

> If you feel secondhand embarrassment, then I did my job. Thank you for reading.


End file.
